


Merry Not Christmas

by TheOlderDixonBoy



Category: The Walking Dead, The Walking Dead & Related Fandoms, The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-09
Updated: 2019-08-09
Packaged: 2020-08-13 19:27:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20179480
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheOlderDixonBoy/pseuds/TheOlderDixonBoy
Summary: Summary: Merle and Caesar find themselves in the infirmary at Woodbury after another evening in the Woodbury Arena. Somehow, the conversation steers towards Christmas.Warnings: Language. Mentions of past child abuse.





	Merry Not Christmas

The two men sat in the infirmary at Woodbury, groaning softly and trying not to look at one another. The first few hours after a fight in the Woodbury Arena were always awkward for Caesar and Merle. The two were pitted against one another two or three times a week, asked to beat the shit out of one another, and then turn around the next day and work side by side in the Governor’s Army. The sick nature of this was not lost on the men, and as such they found it difficult to look at one another and the damage they had done to one another for a while after they had fought.

After a solid twenty minutes in dead silence, broken only by the occasional cough or groan from Merle as he shifted his weight to try to find a comfortable way to lie with what he thought were broken ribs, Caesar broke the silence.

“It’s been gettin’ colder,” Caesar said. His voice was clean, deep, even, showing no sign of the pain he felt radiating off his head from the blows he took from Merle.

“The weather? Fuckin’ really?” Merle snapped back with a scoff, followed by a cough and a groan.

“You have anything better?” Caesar joked.

“Silence,” Merle scoffed.

“Nah, ‘nuff of that,” Caesar said. “It has been colder though. Less humid too. Wonder if it’s coming Christmas time.”

“Christmas? Who gives a shit ‘bout Christmas,” Merle said softly. He wanted desperately to change the subject but wasn’t quite sure how. Christmas was always a sore subject for him.

“Jus’ been thinking about it,” Caesar said quietly. He could tell he hit a nerve he hadn’t meant to hit. Hitting Merle in an arena was one thing, but Merle had become one of the only people who seemed to understand how he felt about being in Woodbury, and he had not meant to hurt him.

“Yeah? An’ what about it?” Merle had moved slightly on his cot to remove the metal prosthetic from his arm. The skin underneath was red and sore, and where it wasn’t red and sore it was white and scarred.

Caesar looked at where Merle’s wrist ended, knowing full well the man had cut it off himself, and looked up to meet Merle’s blue eyes before speaking.

“Remember spendin’ it with my daughters and wife is all,” Caesar said with a shrug. “Haven’t thought much about the holidays since all this happened. Just got reminded for some reason.”

Merle looked at Caesar silently. He had snapped at Caesar and not meant to. That’s usually what Merle did, snapped at people when he hadn’t meant to. Except this time, he regretted it. Merle had grown to trust Caesar, confiding in him his discontent with the way the Governor ran things and his desire to find his brother again. Caesar had listened during their runs together, during their night watches, even during their times spent sitting on the beds in the infirmary, and still managed to voluntarily spent time with Merle. That was not something that Merle was used to. He swallowed hard, averting his eyes from Caesar’s deep brown ones and tried to find something to say.

“You remember a lot?” Merle asked after a pause.

“Yah,” Caesar said with a small laugh. “Remember Christmas mornings with them mostly. The girls were always so happy.”

“Yah?” Merle asked. Caesar had turned his head and was facing the wall straight ahead of him, clearly lost in thought. Merle studied his face, his facial hair covering his jawline as Caesar clenched and unclenched his jaw. The man’s close-cropped hair was covered in a fine layer of dirt from the arena. The large purple marks were forming on his face and neck from where Merle had hit him. Merle felt a twinge of guilt before the pain in his ribs reminded him that it was part of being in the Arena.

“They’d come down the stairs, earliest they ever woke up without a fight, still in their pajamas,” Caesar laughed and then his breath hitched once, stifling a sob. “Maria, my baby girl, she used to wear my old shirts to bed, way too big for her. She used to have to hold the shirt up like it was a dress to come down the stairs. I remember her, one hand holding up the shirt, the other holding that small old raggedy bunny.”

Caesar stopped for a moment, trying to solidify this moment in his head of his youngest daughter on Christmas morning, and realized the absurdity of doing so while sitting in the infirmary of a post-apocalyptic bunker after having just beat the man he had become to feel oddly protective over.

“Did their eyes light up like they jus’ saw the promised land when they noticed the tree?” Merle asked after a pause. He had turned his head and was looking at the wall in front of him, a small smirk playing at the side of his busted lip.

“Yeah, exactly,” Caesar said with a grin, turning towards Merle. “Maria, and Joselyn, she was the oldest by two years. They’d always take the last two steps at a jump. Fuck, they’d run up to the tree, gasping and jumping up and down. Fucking cutest thing you’d ever seen. I think Maria was so young she was more excited about the color of the wrapping paper and the bows more than anything.”

“Daryl too,” Merle answered. He paused, the air heavy between the two men and then continued. “We never had a tree really. Dad always broke it or threw it out during a fight before Christmas came. And momma never had the money for gifts after daddy was done drinking his paycheck. But I used to mow lawns and collect cans from people who were willing to help a Dixon to get ‘em something.”

Caesar looked at Merle. His brow knitted and he felt a wave of sadness go through him. He knew Merle was made of the toughest stuff around, but he never stopped to wonder why.

“What did you get?” Caesar asked. He was sitting up now, the pain in his head slowly reducing down to a dull throbbing.

“If I was lucky I got daddy being passed out by noon,” Merle said with a chuckle. “When Daryl got older he used to try to make me things or find stuff at a second hand shop, but I always told him don’t worry. I didn’t need nothin’,” Merle paused for a moment. “Didn’t deserve nothin’ either.”

Caesar scoffed and for a moment Merle felt a flash of anger go through him towards the other man, but when he looks over at Caesar’s face, his anger dissolved. Caesar was looking at Merle with an expression of concern. He shook his head before speaking.

“You know that’s bullshit, right?” Caesar asked. He put his head in his palm momentarily and rubbed his eyes.

“What is?” Merle snapped back. He wasn’t angry, but he was cautious. He had no idea how to read the situation.

“Deserving stuff on Christmas. It’s bullshit,” Caesar said. He was looking at Merle with a stern expression on his face. His brow creased and his eyes were wide, making his eyebrows raise up. If Merle didn’t know the man so well he’d say Caesar was pissed at him, but he knew he wasn’t. Caesar wasn’t mad at Merle, he was mad for him.

“Maybe, but still didn’t deserve much,” Merle said with a shrug.

“Yeah, you did,” Caesar said through a clenched jaw. He was still glaring at Merle, feeling anger where Merle felt defeated. “You were a kid. Kids get toys. Kids get a happy morning on Christmas.”

“I sure as hell fucking didn’t,” Merle grumbled. He turned around to face the wall and tried to lay down, but a sharp shooting pain in his ribs stopped him. At least one had to be broken. “Doesn’t matter much though…”

Caesar cut him off.

“Didn’t say that’s what you got, said that’s what you shoulda had.” Caesar was still looking at Merle, studying his face as it changed into a momentary grimace of pain when he leaned back. He felt guilty momentarily, knowing he was the reason Merle was in pain right now, but he pushed that aside. “You and your brother were kids just like my girls, you shoulda had a Christmas like they did.”

Merle let out a gruff laugh and a dramatic sigh. “Good thing I didn’t have no kids then, not any I know of anyway, or they’d have been in the same boat as me,” Merle said. He was smiling but not with any joy.

“Nah, viejo, that’s not true,” Caesar said. Merle was surprised at the conviction in the man’s voice. “You’d care for ‘em, like you did Daryl. Like you do Daryl.”

Merle didn’t say anything. He just stared straight ahead. He was afraid to speak. Afraid of the cavalcade of emotions running through him: anger at Caesar for telling him he deserved better when his whole life everyone told him he deserved less, sorrow for hearing how a Christmas was supposed to be and realizing just how far off his were, resentment for knowing that there were people who never knew what it was like to spend a Christmas in the woods out behind the house hiding your brother from your drunk father, hands frozen with the cold, and Daryl’s muffled sobs beneath Merle’s scarf he forced Daryl to wear so he wouldn’t get cold. Most of all he felt defeated, that any good that may have come to him in life had left with the end of the world. He was trying to think of something to say to Caesar, trying to say thank you for thinking he was good enough, but fuck you for saying it. The nurse finally walked in and saved him.

She patched the two of them up in almost complete silence. She told Merle he probably broke two of his ribs and should rest for at least a week. Caesar had a badly bruised eye socket but it didn’t look broken, and a sprained wrist. The two men were bandaged up and sent on their way. Caesar stopped for half a second to grab his jacket on the way out and by the time he left the infirmary, Merle was gone.

It wasn’t that hard to find people in Woodbury with how small it was, but he figured if Merle needed his space, he was the type of man you better give it to.

Caesar walked to the room he was staying in on the top floor of what used to be a pharmacy. He crawled into his mattress on the floor and fell into an uneasy sleep.

——————-

The next day, Caesar woke up at first light. He rolled out of his bed and hauled himself into a standing position. He had to rest his hand on the wall to steady himself for a moment, a likely concussion from the previous evening making the room spin slightly. He stumbled to the corner of his room and dug through the bag of supplies he had obtained on his previous run. He picked out a few items and shoved them in his pockets before walking onto the Main Street of Woodbury.

He walked slowly, his body sore from the fight the night before, but he couldn’t help but smile to himself.

“Old man’s tough as shit,” he mumbled, and then chuckled to himself as he stumbled into the small supply room at the end of the street.

He rummaged through the pile of notebooks that people had brought back on runs, mostly so Milton would have paper to write down his history, until he found one with blank pages. Looked like a sketch pad. He rummaged around more for tape, but found none. Bailing twine would have to work, he decided. He walked back to his apartment, limping slightly, passing only the people finishing up the overnight watch, and closed the door behind him.

——————-

Merle sat up about ten minutes after Caesar in a small room across Woodbury’s Main Street. He hadn’t slept all night because of the pain he had been in from his broken ribs, but at first light he decided he should try to get up and start his day. He didn’t rise for several minutes, the stiffness in his muscles slowly being stretched out of him as he slowly moved around in his bed. When he finally did get up, he did so gingerly, rolling over onto all fours on the floor next to him, then using the doorframe next to his bed to help haul himself up.

His breathing was shallow, his ribs ached, and every time he tried to take a deep breath his entire rib cage felt like it spasmed in pain. These were not the first broken ribs Merle had suffered, but they were the worst. When he had broken ribs in bar fights and underground boxing matches and good old fashioned rough housing before this, he had been able to get his hands on some painkillers and whiskey to help dull the pain. Best he had now were cold rags wet by the hose outside to try to help reduce the swelling.

He stood in the door frame for a few minutes, letting his body adjust to the pain. His ribs were the worst pain, but his arms and legs and back all ached with the usual soreness that came after his nights in the arena.

“Caesar’s gettin’ better,” he grumbled to himself as he leaned down gingerly to pull on his boots. “Or I’m gettin’ older an’ slower.”

Merle thought it was probably both and sighed before walking slowly out to go find something to eat.

He stepped out into the streets of Woodbury, the first few people starting to wander the streets, trying to find something to do. Unless you were a member of the Governor’s Army or a cook, it could be difficult to find something to do to kill time. That’s probably why the library was so popular. Merle himself spent quite a bit of time there, when he found the townspeople and the politics of Woodbury too much. He loved it in there. The quiet, the fact that he could sit in the back and just people watch. Lost in his thoughts, without fear of being judged. It was during these times his mind would shift to things he usually didn’t let himself think about. His brother. His parents. Caesar. That was the hardest one to stomach.

He kept telling himself he shouldn’t be thinking of Caesar. The way the man would look at him when they worked together, a stoic look that made Merle nervous for a reason he couldn’t quite place. The way that Caesar would joke with him, joking with Merle as much as Merle joked with him. Last night, in the infirmary, when Caesar told Merle he deserved kindness.

No. Merle stopped walking. He had walked down to the gates without even realizing it. He also stopped his train of thought. He had to. The man had a wife and children before the shit hit the fan. There was no way he wanted Merle. Why would he want some bitter, hard headed, old man with one hand and an inability to accept kindness. Merle looked up at the wall, giving one of the young men on the top of it a glare, as if he was daring the man to ask him what he was thinking of, and turned around to walk back to his room. He grabbed a gallon of water on the way back, content to spend his day by himself without food if it meant no one would be around to ask him what he was thinking about.

Merle walked slowly the rest of the way back to his room with a look on his face that let any passersby know that speaking to him would be against their better judgement. He got back into his apartment and laid down on his mattress gingerly. He laid flat, trying to settle his breathing to relieve the constant ache in his ribs. Merle laid like that, sipping his water, and trying not to think about Caesar, and failing.

——————-

After a few hours, once the sun had risen completely and Caesar had managed to get some food in his system and move around enough to loosen up some of the stiffness in his muscles, he wandered over to the building Merle slept in. He walked up the stairs, making sure to keep the small packages he had wrapped in notebook paper and bailing twine behind his back in case he ran into Merle. He wasn’t entirely sure why he felt so compelled to give Merle the gifts. Or why it made him so angry last night when Merle told him about the Christmases he had as a child. What confused him more was how much angrier he got, not at Merle, but at Merle’s father, when Merle said he didn’t deserve anything for Christmas. Caesar knew Merle was a bitter, angry, malcontent old man, but he was a good man. An honest man. And Merle did his best to do well by those he cared about.

Caesar had not spent that much time thinking about how much he cared about Merle, he just knew he did. Figured it was stupid to let any sort of social hang-up or mental block stop him from caring about the people he had left in his life. Caesar had lost his entire family, watched them die in front of him. He understood Merle’s unrelenting desire to find his brother again, and he understood Merle’s bitterness at those around him trying to stand in his way.

He made it to Merle’s door and tried the handle. It opened.

“Old man’s fallin’ down on the job,” Caesar mumbled to himself. Merle would never usually leave his room unlocked and certainly wouldn’t let anyone just wander into his room unannounced.

Caesar took a step through the doorway and looked around the room slowly. His eyes immediately fell on the large form laying hunched over on the bed, wheezing and groaning in pain.

“Ah, Tonto,” Caesar mumbled under his breath as he walked over to Merle’s bed. He placed the packages down behind him as he leaned down by the mattress. He reached out to grip Merle’s shoulder and squeeze lightly. “You awake?”

Merle swatted Caesar’s hand away halfheartedly, the pain of his ribs having become too much in this position. He couldn’t seem to find a comfortable way to lay and had been moving around in agony for what felt like hours trying to find some sort of comfort.

“You need to lie flat,” Caesar said softly, pushing Merle down onto his back. Merle fought the entire way down, but eventually listened to Caesar and ended up on his back. Merle groaned in pain, mumbling barely audible curses under his breath. “First day after is the worst for broken ribs. Lie flat. It’s the only way you’ll get any sleep.”

Merle settled into his bed, his head directly on the mattress now that Caesar had taken his pillow away so he would lie completely flat. He looked up at his ceiling, aware of Caesar’s hand still on his shoulder and through his anger at having to accept help, felt his breathing get a bit easier. Caesar must have seen or heard a change in him because he loosened his grip on Merle’s shoulder and sighed.

“You’re not wheezing as much, good,” Caesar said. He sat down on the mattress next to Merle’s bed quietly. He watched Merle resting for a few moments in silence and then looked around the room. He noticed the small pile of books Merle had in the corner by his bed, the large metal prosthetic limb that attached with leather straps resting on the other side of the mattress, and the small pile of neatly folded clothes next to a pair of boots by the doorway.

“Military?” Caesar asked after a few minutes of silence.

“Huh?” Merle grunted out, able to speak a bit now.

“Your clothes and shoes. They are all folded and laid out nice. I always thought you were military, way you walked around with a stick up your ass,” Caesar chuckled at his own joke. “What branch?”

“Army,” Merle grunted.

Caesar took the hint at how little Merle was speaking that he either didn’t want to talk about his time in the military, or didn’t want to talk at all. Caesar looked Merle over, noticing the bruises that covered his chest and the way his wife beater, once white, was now an almost brown color even though it had been washed a few days ago.

“You need new clothes,” Caesar mumbled.

“Ya ain’t that great either,” Merle growled back. The pain in his ribs had subsided enough for him to get some of his snark back.

“There are extra shirts lying around, ya know,” Caesar offered. “I’ll grab you some next time I see them.”

“I can get them myself,” Merle said. He didn’t know why Caesar was here. Or why he helped Merle get comfortable. Or why he was now sitting on Merle’s bed. All he knew was that he didn’t quite know how to react but he was not willing to kick Caesar out of his room just yet. He wanted the man there. Why, he wasn’t quite willing to say, but he did.

“I’ll get ‘em,” Caesar said. He paused then said softly, “I got you something else too.”

Merle grunted out something that sounded almost like a word, unsure of what to say. He turned his head to face Caesar and saw the man reaching behind him to pull out two packages, wrapped in notebook paper and twine. Merle reached out and took them, unsure of what to do with them, and just held them in his hands.

“Merry Christmas, asshole,” Caesar said softly and smiled.

“Why the fuck-” Merle started, but Caesar cut him off.

“Because I fucking wanted to, yeah?” Caesar said with a nod.

“It ain’t even Christmas,” Merle grumbled, but he continued to look down at the presents with something akin to awe.

He couldn’t remember the last time someone had given him a gift, even before the world had ended, and wasn’t quite sure how to react. He knew it wasn’t anger, but he didn’t know what else to do. Caesar shouldn’t be this kind to him. Caesar should hate him for beating him in the arena and constantly trying to upstage him in front of the governor. Caesar certainly should not be sitting next to Merle trying to cheer him up. Merle looked at Caesar, his calm brown eyes, his little smirk that turned up the corners of his mouth, the way his facial hair framed his handsome face. Merle didn’t understand why someone, certainly not someone like Caesar, who was strong and smart and kind and good, would want to give Merle a gift and felt the need to reject the items.

“I don’t need these,” Merle said, handing the items back to Caesar.

“Of course you don’t,” Caesar said. “They are gifts. Open them.”

“Why the fuck did ya get me gifts?” Merle snapped, surprised at the tears that threatened to fall from his eyes and the catch in his throat.

“Because it’s Christmas,” Caesar said. He was leaning forward now, his hands on Merle’s that still held the two small packages. He pushed the packages and Merle’s hands back lightly, careful not to hurt the injured man more. “Fuckin’ open them, you stubborn piece of shit.”

Merle felt a flash of anger go through him before he saw Caesar wink at him and then grin. Merle then looked at the packages in his hand, wrapped messily with notebook paper and couldn’t help but smirk down at them.

“Ya even wrapped ‘em?” Merle mumbled more to himself than Caesar.

“‘Course. It’s Christmas,” Caesar said with a shrug.

“No, it fuckin’ isn’t,” Merle said, this time with less bite in his voice.

“You don’t know that,” Caesar joked back. “Even if it isn’t, I’m either late or early with your gifts, so just open them.”

Merle didn’t see any way to argue back and slowly began to unwrap the gifts. He noticed that Caesar had written “To Merle from Caesar” in messy writing in pencil on one side of the package and tried his best not to rip that part of the paper, but he wasn’t quite sure why. He unwrapped the first package, a small one about the size of a deck of cards, that turned out to be a pack of cigarettes Caesar had picked up on a run a few weeks ago. Merle smiled down at them and bit his lip, trying to figure out why he wanted to cry so bad.

“Thanks,” Merle mumbled, not looking Caesar in the eyes. He unwrapped the pack and stuck one in his mouth before he realized he didn’t have a light. “You have a light?”

“Not on me, no,” Caesar said with a laugh.

Merle shoved the cigarette back into the pack and chuckled, the action hurting his ribs and causing him to grunt softly. He picked up the second larger package and unwrapped it, revealing a copy of a book called “The Lathe Of Heaven.” Merle looked at the book, its cover showing that it was clearly either some type of religious nonsense, or a sci-fi novel.

“It was a bit too complicated for me,” Caesar said. “But you read a lot, so I figured you’d enjoy it.”

“Is it religious?” Merle asked, slightly worried he was about to have Caesar try to convert him or something.

“Nah, sci-fi,” Caesar said.

The two men then lapsed into silence, Merle holding his gifts in his hand, not wanting to let them go, and Caesar looking at Merle lying on his bed, his chest slowly rising and falling with his breathing. After a few moments Merle broke the silence.

“I didn’t get you anything,” Merle said. Caesar noticed he sounded sad.

“Didn’t want you to,” Caesar said softly.

“Why did you get me these?” Merle said, then quickly added, “And don’t say because it’s Christmas.”

“I wanted to,” Caesar said. He paused for a moment then spoke again. “Pissed me off yesterday when you said no one ever got you anything. It isn’t right.”

“I didn’t deserve nothin’,” Merle said, trying not to cry. Oh god, please don’t let me cry in front of him, Merle thought to himself.

“Isn’t about deserving things,” Caesar said. He had leaned forward and placed one of his hands on Merle’s shoulder, keeping it there even when Merle flinched at the unexpected contact. “You were a kid. Kids get things for Christmas. Or they should.”

“Not a kid now,” Merle whispered. He was aware of Caesar’s hand on his shoulder. Aware of how warm the man’s skin was. He reached out, letting the book and the cigarettes rest on his chest, and placed his hand on Caesar’s, gripping the man’s fingers in his.

“Still deserve things at Christmas,” Caesar said softly. He moved closer to Merle’s mattress, his hand still resting on Merle’s shoulder. “Were you able to sleep last night?”

“Not really,” Merle said. He was speaking softly, very softly, afraid that speaking too loudly may make whatever was happening now disappear. Caesar was being kind, tender, and it wasn’t something Merle was used to, and certainly not anything Merle expected from Caesar. It seemed delicate, and he was afraid of breaking it, whatever it was.

“Think you can rest now?” Caesar whispered.

“‘Prolly,” Merle whispered, already feeling himself relax. His next words came out so softly he was sure he thought them more than spoke them, but Caesar somehow heard. “Will you stay?”

“If you want,” Caesar whispered back.

Merle nodded slowly, afraid to say yes out loud, afraid that it would scare Caesar away if he realized how much he wanted him there. Caesar squeezed Merle’s shoulder to show he had seen Merle’s answer.

“Merry Christmas, old man,” Caesar said, smiling at the now almost asleep Merle.

“ItznotCrissmas,” Merle grumbled almost inaudibly.

“Merry not Christmas,” Caesar whispered back, leaning forward to kiss Merle softly on the temple as he finally fell asleep.


End file.
